


The Fealty Method

by YogurtTime



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtTime/pseuds/YogurtTime
Summary: It takes more than a firm order to inspire obedience in Junno





	The Fealty Method

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted January 2012

 

 

“You should go.”

Maybe his eyes are narrow and he looks _mean_ how he says it.

Definite emphasis on each syllable so Junno will grasp the severity of it, know that he means it, or is trying to. Whatever. The gears of Maru’s armchair creak under Junno’s additional weight, hands on either side of the chair back. Maru doesn’t move except that his knuckles harden, fingers closed around the curved edge of his arm rests-- sitting stiffly there--firmly tepid in his gaze.

“Listen to me, Junno,” Maru says; he has this _special_ tone that could shift the course of gravity.

Junno knows his tones. He shakes his head, leaning over Maru. “I do listen.”

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

 

“Taguchi, shh.”

Junno voice trails off. He’s mid-stretch, his back to the mirrored rehearsal room and he sees a collection of gazes he’d forgotten about before. It was one of his favourite songs on their album and while the speakers on the CD player touted the melody freely, Junno couldn’t resist the hum, and undertone of his own words, beginning the song on his own.

The lyric sort of fades with the rest of his tune and hangs in thin air. Music in his head drops to make room for conceptions. Conceptions like Maru’s reflection in the mirror, standing across the room behind him, finger over his own lips; the reason he might be frowning at Junno.

They’re all shooting him irritable looks. Junno forgets what he was saying. There’s only the leftover ring of the memory of his own tone and the overlap of Maru’s remaining.

It pretty much doesn’t matter now. In a room full of different expressions, cues and odd pointed gazes, Junno feel illiterate. He’s tried to communicate on a diet of expression before; it doesn’t work for him because people are weird. Maru, weird as he is like all the others, is full of tells.

Maru’s gaze, for instance, can be the very archetype of the patriarchal reprove. In that expression, dark eyes with lids at half-mast, lips curved downward. It’s because that judging gaze is wordless, steady that his eyes seems to swim with a myriad of these nameless appraisals which only a lifetime of self-evaluation and insecurity can place.

So Junno does “shh” and it’s that easy. Rehearsal goes on.

Maru hands him his towel during break with a somewhat morose mutter of, “Do your best, all right?”

Divergent moments like that make Junno want to jump through fiery hoops. Even _he_ knows it’s weird.

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

The only sounds in the living room are the chair as the screws-- deeply embedded in its leather-- groan when the chair tilts further backward; Junno’s own interexchange of exhales with Maru’s; Maru’s mouth open under his; the quick slip of his tongue and the cloth-whisper of Junno’s shirt riding up and lifted by Maru’s fisted handfuls of him.

It takes him some heady seconds; he’s thinking about how Maru’s forearms fit right into the closure of his fists. Maru’s whispering, between kisses, saying things as his hard, delicate fingers run up over Junno’s chest, ignite a layer of gooseflesh and shivers.

“We’ll regret this,” Maru is saying. Junno tucks one knee dutifully between Maru’s thighs, nodding and disagreeing all at once. “You’ll...”

Junno doesn’t know what Maru’s talking about. He’s never regretted anything Maru wanted from him.

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

 

They’re all out for dinner but the drinks keep pouring while Maru frets over the menu. Junno gets that they’re supposed to be quiet as Maru makes muttering noises at his menu, Ueda had opened his mouth to order just now and Maru’s sharp, “No!” had the others exchanging glances culminating a mix of incredulous and distressed. Then Maru had confiscated their menus, which was pretty funny.

Junno, seated beside Maru, leans over for a peek; he wants to ask Maru if he can order something lighter. His appetite has kind of ebbed the last few months…

Well Maru really knows his restaurants and his food. He orders like he’s meant to come in and engage the table staff, like he’s invited KAT-TUN as guests, making stern-faced _queries_ and nodding at ingredients. He’s like those men in western period films. With his rapid, sardonic chat, he could turn black and white and maybe no one would notice.

Junno squints through his eyelashes and tries to picture Maru in black and white. He just looks blurry. Goes without saying.

Maru misses Junno’s squinty-eyed look as he distractedly points his menu curtly at him. “…And a sizeable ginger curry for that one.”

The others only laugh at Junno’s stunned expression and the helpless look he shoots the departing waitress. He was planning to order something he could actually finish…

Maru’s moved on into conversation with Ueda and Junno sits back in his seat, toying with his napkin. Between drinks, he can’t help glancing skittishly around. Beer has made his mouth numb and he rests his cheek in his palm, laughing at things Koki does until the food arrives.

Maru’s eyes flicker over to him when the waitress sets his dish down, fingers gently tap Junno’s arm. And it is a big plate. Junno grimaces.

“The ginger will help,” is all Maru says leaning over, low mutter and his knee touches his under the table. When their eyes meet, Maru’s look neutral and matter-of-fact; like it’s _everyday_ that he reaches right into people—pure comfort osmosis-- and makes them feel like horrible things aren’t meant to happen. Not when he’s _right there_.

Junno would later try to remember how he looked then because Maru fixes a sudden searching, calculating look on him.

“Eat it all,” he finally says curtly, turning away.

Junno can’t chew fast enough.

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

 

Junno listens for cues while he imprisons Maru’s arms-- bringing them over his head against the back of the chair-- the pained breaths and startled, complacent sighs. Maru stretches under him, all drag of fabric and warmth and hardness, when Taguchi tongues him right over a mark below his ear, relaxing his arms back where Junno put them.

Maru arches just perfectly and the reclining lever’s pull to Maru flat on his back is gentle. Junno climbs him, knowing contours with his lips. Maru’s eyes are shut and Junno almost has all the buttons of Maru’s shirt undone.

 

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

 

Junno doesn’t register it at first; the others are talking, it’s the back of his arm and they’re crowded with a number of others in an elevator. Maru’s right behind him, poking a line of his tricep very faintly, his brow etched with a strange deep thought, lips formed in an enigmatic moue.

Someone’s talking on their mobile, an interweave with the drone, and they’ve three floors to go. Maru surveys him.

Junno’s not sure if he’s being silly. He laughs anyway. “What?” he says.

“Getting bigger, aren’t you?” he remarks shortly and that’s even funnier.

“I’ve been playing tennis again.” Junno’s at eye-level with the very top of his head so when he twists around Maru has to lean back a bit. His eyes are dancing like he’s about to tell Junno a secret. It makes Junno feel like some kind of superpower.

“There’s a survival game coming up, as you know. Indoors this time, but the venue’s huge.”

So it’s that.

“Mm, yeah.” Junno folds his arms. When Maru engages him suddenly like this; he’s always hyper-aware that any moment he could say something wrong. He waits for cues because Maru is so very telling.

The next very early morning Junno groggily checks his mail and finds a brief missive from Maru:

**You’ll be second in command for the up-coming game. Counting on you, all right?**

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

 

Maru dictates his rhythm, letting Junno lap over his lips, leaning forward into the dart of Junno’s tongue, arms struggling just a little-- the tiniest bit-- and Junno crowds him, bending low, digging his knee in a prodding motion. He sets his mouth over Maru’s when he groans like electricity struck him. He breaks free and drags Junno closer, hands up his ribs. Junno shudders.

“You…” Maru says archly.

Junno loves that. Loves it best. Both their hands meet at Maru’s belt buckle, tugging two levels of motion; Maru’s mouth still searches his, all freedom and spice. Something like that.

“Just—“ Maru starts, falling apart when Junno gets a hand on him.

“Yeah,” Junno murmurs, knowing already.

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

 

Sometimes during a game, Maru disappears. He’s a stealth type with an affinity for his sniper rifle. “You’re in charge,” he whispers to Junno where three members of their team are tucked tight in an alcove. He grabs Junno’s arm to be sure he hears, contact firm so it’s an order.

The click of his safety and the ring of his departing footfalls feed Junno’s resolve; sense of duty. This could be so real.

Maru’s pinpointed shots: fire reconnaissance, from wherever’s he’s stationed himself, fells one quickly near their position and Junno sends a signal for them to fall back to the box barricades behind them. It foils the enemy ambush and Junno’s tall enough to use his arms and hike himself on top of their divider, watches and waits for them.

“One at two o’ clock; two others coming in at eleven,” he whispers down at Koki, who passes on the signal.

There’s a thing about fighting indoors; it’s the dark; a sound could be anything. Junno has Maru’s steps in force dispersal memorised and he mimics. Plays out each step, muttering the listing in his mind like dance cues.

Maru’s cues.

It’s their win. Junno’s wait is bated by the curiosity image of Maru looking more than self-satisfied. Approving maybe. He has all these strange wishes nowadays.

Maru’s hand on Junno’s back pats like an attack. “Methodical,” Maru says to him that night; soft-eyed, smiling, but not meeting his gaze. “Total natural.”

His compliments for Junno are always like that. Detached adjectives. Junno could play at survival without so much pressure; could play so calmly if Maru’s expectations were never there. Of course, this thing Junno wants—well—it has so little to do with something easy.

He doesn’t want to be calm anymore.

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

 

There’s the rustling noise of Maru’s shirt when he arches off the leather and Junno’s heartbeat in his ears.

He said he’d be sorry. Junno hadn’t thought of it like a threat. Like this, Maru is a total train wreck release. Junno’s chest constricts, on a strange streamline, when Maru’s teeth scrape right over his neck. Maru clutches and moves quickly, fingers insistent when he pulls Junno out.

He gets at Maru’s lips again, playing at his tongue. Wet cling and Maru sucks in Junno’s fingers, licking over fingertips as Junno slides down on him, lingering over Maru’s chest, mouthing over tense lines and mirroring breaths as Maru’s ribs swell.

Maru edges the waist of his trousers around his thighs and Junno slides his wet fingers up the front of Maru’s hips. He watches Maru shut his eyes and turn his face off to the right. Junno finally starts to tug, thumb running over the tip and edging sensitive skin through his palm. Maru in keening response, cups him, hands to his hair and face, bucking toward him all strained to the very tendon.

“Quicker,” Maru orders.

 _Anything_ , Junno thinks.

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

 

_Taguchi’s a good guy_

Maru’s never said anything like that. His stalwart, painful honesty seems to use silence as a defence tactic. Just never ask Maru a question you don’t want the answer to. Maru won’t say _everything_ , but he will be straightforward and minimalistic on certain ‘anythings’.

Otherwise there is his silence.

“You said you were interested in the new C.O.D. release,” he says--that rare dance in how he looks at Junno directly-- eyes squinted up.

Junno nods.

“Well then find a day when you’re free and come visit, all right? I’m already hours through it but I’ll let you play a bit…”

“Today,” Junno says quickly, trying not to stumble; trying not to use any thing that’ll earn him an honesty unspoken. “I’m free today.”

Maru surveys his watch. Excitement thrums from Maru from the way he walks backward down the hallway, smiling. “All right; I’ll make time for you,” he quips and Junno feels like an audience to something, in its origins, utterly perfect. “Tonight.” He points an imperious finger.

“Tonight,” he echoes.

Junno has lived on a diet of silences. Communicative devices by expression and stares are dull to him and confusing. He’ll always be at ease around people who are awkwardly obvious. People with primarily visible tells.

Maru’s tells aren’t easy, though, and he gives Junno silence more than any of the others. It’s still the fact that working it out is worth the agony, and that it feels like a secret game.

“Do your best,” Maru says to him often, but his silences say he thinks/wishes Junno could do more than just that.

So where words and terse orders are, Junno listens to silences.

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

Once Junno perfects the pace— pressing himself direct to Maru and closing his fist around both of them-- it seems as if it won’t ever last long enough. Maru is tight against him, breathing like each is his last. Junno delights in how he’s a splayed, tense mess, groaning against his lips; how Maru stretches out, legs spread, cleaving even closer. His gasps enter high tones.

He’s not quite there himself, but the shock shudder running up his limbs makes him curve inward, forehead pressed to the chair’s leather. Everything Maru’s body does, from the cling of his skin and the sinuous wind of his hips to his torso speaks like full sentences to Junno. His lip-bitten cry when Junno quickens, enforced by his own impeding climb, ring in the room and Junno starts to make his own half-words. Exertion riddling his frame when Maru bucks into his fist, running pulses up and down his own hard need.

“Yes, that’s--“ Maru starts to say, grabbing Junno by the back of his neck, fingers yanking his hair.

Junno swallows the words, sealing his lips right over Maru’s hot mouth. He doesn’t need him to speak. In the bright, crackling heat of release and the sticky wet of Maru plunging forward, tightening into shock and then going limp, Junno has developed ideals of anticipating each demand.

He still grinds down against sensitive edges and he hears the command of his end, spilling over and Maru nipping at his jaw.

 

 

  
~~||||||~||||||~~

 

The game ends. They’ve played for over three hours and Maru’s looking at him so fondly that Junno understands the strain of this want; like a symptom. They’re in the last dredges of laughter and Junno like he’s conquered a nation.

Maru’s sigh. Junno would’ve gotten ready to go, but Maru’s gaze follows him. Dark stare and an empathetic solemn smile, loaded with expectation and trust. Junno gets up from the sofa and stands over Maru’s armchair, watches Maru’s entire body thrum with an order, an intense collision of yearning and defense.

Maru doesn’t move and Junno leans down.

“You should go,” he says that night and maybe his eyes are narrow and he looks _mean_ how he says it.

Definite emphasis on each syllable so Junno will grasp the severity of it, know that he means it, or is trying to. Whatever. The gears of Maru’s armchair creak under Junno’s additional weight, hands on either side of the chair back. Maru doesn’t move except that his knuckles harden, fingers closed around the curved edge of his arm rests-- sitting stiffly there--firmly tepid in his gaze.

“Listen to me, Junno,” Maru says; he has this _special_ tone that could shift the course of gravity.

Junno knows his tones. He shakes his head, leaning over Maru. “I do listen.”  



End file.
